


The Wicked Winding Streets

by natascha_ronin



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan - Freeform, Captain Swan AU - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6490282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natascha_ronin/pseuds/natascha_ronin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan is an insurance investigator, investigating Killian Jones for art theft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night at the Frick

“You look wonderful.”

She felt the sudden spark at his breath shimmer down her spine from where it caressed her neck and she inhaled sharply. She turned in his direction and saw his retreat, the back of his bespoke tuxedo, Kilgour by the intricate hand-stitched pattern. His artfully tousled russet hair and three-day beard appeared at odds with the polished company surrounding them, Upper East Side wasps and who’s who noshing on hors d’oeuvres and sipping Taittinger.

He plucked a glass from a passing waiter, and if she hadn’t felt the tremors of his soft timbre, she never would have known he was there. They played this cat-and-mouse game every time they met, and she ran her hand down the back of her neck to ward off the chill she felt now. His presence at the Frick tonight could only mean one thing: he was casing the exhibit.

Killian Jones was an elegant man, a self-made wealthy executive at Gold-Jefferson-French, an investment and securities firm, and he was a former assistant-director with the London Metals Exchange. He was rumored to be starting his own boutique firm, but that was just speculated interest. His real history was far more interesting than the bland job he had now. He traded blood antiquities from Syria and was rumored to have profited from plundered goods around the globe.

He was a thief, a crook; a profiteer of the world’s looted treasures. He even had a sailing yacht docked at North Cove Marina. All he was missing was a bottle of rum and an eye patch. His reputation as a womanizer, playboy, and thrill-seeker didn’t help, but he always managed to be in proximity when specific pieces of art and antiques went missing. More recently, the theft at the Venus put him in her sights.

Salvador Dali’s _Cartel de Don Juan Tenorio_ was stolen three months ago, the theft captured on tape, and then the drawing was mailed back to the gallery from Greece, in time to be on display for the last day of a ten-day show. The postage was marked Kallithea, about 3 kilometers from the private residence of Killian’s brother, Liam. Killian had a solid alibi for London at the time, but the investigation put them at odds, and she couldn’t ignore her intuition that this guy was the Dali’s thief. She spent ten years with the FBI, and her first case as a private insurance investigator was a black eye. Eyewitness reports placed Jones at 86th and 3rd less than half an hour before the heist. He left his apartment to board his private jet the next morning, fifteen minutes before a judge issued a search warrant for his flat. After that, his whereabouts were a mystery until the Dali turned up.

Emma Swan always got her man, until Killian Jones came along. He flirted with her at every gathering – they were frequently at the same events – art exhibits, galas, even a lecture at NYU on Art History before the theft at the Venus. He dripped charm, and roguish smoldering looks, sex appeal and class. He was the envy of every man in the room, and the deity of every woman.

She snorted, watching him bend to kiss the hand of Belle French, a Prada model and daughter of a partner in his investment firm. His ridiculously long lashes brushed his cheeks and his cerulean blue eyes gleamed brighter than his smile as he laughed at something she said. Oh, he was a charmer alright, and she was going to catch him and beat him at his own game.

Emma didn’t look bad, if she was being honest with herself. The black one-shoulder Michael Kors gown was a clearance buy, and she had worn it a few times, but she was here to work. Besides, it showed off her best assets: her arms and a shapely leg through the slit up the side. She sighed. Time to play the game. With a quick sip of her champagne, she steeled herself for the repartee of upper-class snobbery and Killian’s familiarity. She walked over to the party and caught his eye.

“Killian, it’s a pleasure to see you here tonight, how are you?” she inclined her head toward him.

“Popular, it appears,” He gave an apologetic look to his consort and reached out his hand to grasp hers.

Miss French appeared annoyed to have been interrupted and her coy glare met Emma’s cool smile.

“Belle,” Emma inclined her head at her, “I trust you’re enjoying the fruits of your father’s labors.” Maurice French had financed the curate of the collection of porcelain on display.

“Yes,” Belle looked interested, “I take it you’ve seen the porcelain exhibit already.”

Emma gave a quick nod and glanced around. “My boss made sure of it. He’s insuring it.”

Belle looked momentarily surprised. “Ah, that’s right. David Nolan is the insurer of the Sèvres collection. He’s really coming up in the world with his charming little firm, isn’t he?”

God, these upper-class twits could be so condescending while sounding so nice. Emma gave chagrined smile and chuckled. Killian cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable at his cohort’s disrespect.

“The world of antiquities and art theft and forgery doesn’t appear to have dwindled.” She gave Killian a pointed look, who in turn rolled his eyes and gave her his best mockery of innocence. “So, yes, he is doing quite well. He and Mary Margaret just bought a townhouse in Yorkville.”

“Oh, how charming! A townhouse is always very cozy.” Belle turned to Killian and patted his arm. “Killy, darling, I’m going to powder my nose. Don’t go away.” She met his polite smile with an enticing look and he nodded, staring after her until she was through the host of guests and out of sight. He sighed and turned back to her, rolling his eyes again. Emma swallowed down the last of her champagne and he took her empty glass, placing both his and hers on a passing tray.

“So, care to walk with me and eye your next buried treasure conquest?” Emma snickered and turned around, not waiting for him to follow. He did, leaning over to offer his arm with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

“You know, you seem awfully certain for a woman who’s spent the last three months investigating someone she didn’t catch in the act.”

“Oh, I did catch him,” she laughed, turning them down the Portico Gallery. Patrons loomed around exhibit cases, their steps hollow and loud on the concrete floor. “I intend to keep a close eye on him until he slips up.”

“How close would you like to keep him?” There was that whispered invitation again, and those damn goose bumps at his lilting voice. He stopped abruptly in front of the bronze Vase Japan.

She could see his reflection in the glass of the window. To anyone, they looked like a couple enjoying the collection, and for a moment, that’s what she saw in the reflected image.

 _Shake out of it_ , she thought. Killian was not some handsome Englishman enjoying her company, although he seemed to enjoy their banter. He was her suspect, and she was determined not to give in to her attraction to a man she was investigating.

She turned to Killian, slipping her arm from his. The back of his arm brushed her breast and she inhaled sharply, the sensation too familiar with the way she felt when she looked at him lately. His touch was far too intimate, the dusky rose of his lips too close to her face. Her eyes shot up to his, warning him.

It was suddenly very warm in here. She needed to put some distance between them. The investigation and proximity to him in the last few months had brought them far too close for adversaries. She walked through the open French doors to the courtyard. The city surrounded her here, light and noise and breeze, and she closed her eyes and breathed in the night air.

She heard him walk softly up behind her. He was always where she was. If she didn’t know any better, she’d swear he was stalking her. The funny thing was that she liked seeing him. She enjoyed the thrill of his allusion to attraction, his familiarity with her person, almost as if he were pursuing a lover and not an enemy. She needed to push him back in his place, and that place was the subject of her investigation. She opened her eyes and turned around, steeling herself.

“I’m pulling surveillance videos from Athens International Airport for June 20th,” She leaned in and spoke low enough for only him to hear, holding his cool gaze. “I’ve got Interpol’s cooperation, and I’m pretty certain a private jet captain could be persuaded to cooperate with the police when we get the warrant to search the flight log for the IATA code entered upon your arrival.”

She backed up and leveled her gaze upon his smug indifference.

“You’re so sure I stole a cheap drawing from a brand new gallery? And why would I do that?”

“You think a Salvador Dali is a cheap drawing? I beg to differ.”

He looked up into the night sky and waved his hand. “You’re ready to hang me over a mere $150,000. I have motorcars that cost more than that. So, my brother lives in Greece. You have yet to produce a motive, love.”

She bristled at that. She didn’t really have a motive, and the Dali had been tested for forgery upon return with no indication it was tampered with. And he was right, he didn’t need to steal an inexpensive work of art, and that was what was so puzzling. It was like The Godfather lifting a snickers bar from the corner store. His attorneys would probably bury the DA in paperwork and the case would be dismissed. What she really wanted was to find out what else he might be hiding. The Dali was smoke. Where there was smoke, there was fire. Perhaps it was petty, but it was the principle she was after. Blood antiquities, mysterious trips to Greece, what was he about?

“You left yourself wide open. Cheap painting or not, theft is still theft, and I’ve got the evidence.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“How many people do you know in Kallithea? One, maybe two?”

“Come now, I can’t be arrested for a coincidence.” Killian turned around and started to walk away.

“Yeah, but that coincidence was just a little too good.” She reached out to grab his arm. He jerked, and she stumbled into his back.

“Oh, you’re just _inches_ away now, aren’t you?” He whispered over his shoulder. God, this felt so much like foreplay.

_Stop it, Emma._

“I _am_ just inches away,” she breathed into his neck. “You think I’m just gonna pack up and go home and lay off? I know a thief when I see one.”

He laughed, and it made her livid. She yanked his arm until he turned around and she shoved her finger up into his face. He leaned his head forward until her finger nearly touched his lips.

“You smug son-of-a-bitch, I’m not finished with you, and when I am, you’ll be behind bars.” Okay, that was a stretch, but she was prone to hyperbole when she was angry. She clasped her hands in front of her.

“And then what?” He licked his lips and narrowed his eyes, whispering in her ear through his teeth. “You’ll have twenty percent? How about I just cut you a check and you can stop sniffing my crotch, or is that the part of me you prefer? I’m open to a plea bargain. ” He backed up and raised an eyebrow, jutting out his chin and leering at her.

She simply glared at him, at a loss for words, and he walked backwards into the gallery and away from her, turning towards the library. She couldn’t play this advanced of a game. The exhibit guests gave her quick glances before politely, albeit awkwardly, looking away. She was sure her face was red. She straightened her posture, pulled her hair back over one shoulder, and walked over to a bench to cool down. She exhaled a long, shaky breath, blinking back tears. This was so much more than just an art theft investigation. This was a game she was growing less confident she could win.


	2. The Drive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an M-rated chapter, but no smut.

The night drew to a close, patrons dwindling out as Emma waited for the car service to arrive at the curb on 70th. Her feet were sore, her ego was bruised, and she was looking forward to a hot bath and a glass of wine. She looked over at the throng of people, chatting away and saying goodnight, promising brunch and cheek kisses. A green Aston Martin cut across traffic and pulled over to stop at the curb in front of her. _Only in Manhattan_ , she thought. The driver’s side window rolled down and it appeared to have no driver. 

A figure leaned over and looked up at her. It was Killian, the ever-present smirk on his face.

She leaned down and looked into the window, curious. The steering wheel was on the right side. Was that even legal here? She gave him a puzzled look. 

“Would you like a lift back to your flat?” He leaned back and placed his hand on the gear shifter. 

“Uh, sure. I just need to – is that hard to drive here?” She opened the door, picked up her dress, and stepped in. The seat was soft and molded to her. The smell of leather permeated the air. The passenger window went back up and she felt the world around her quiet. She sat, dumbfounded, wondering what possessed her to get into the car of a suspected criminal. A criminal who was looking at her pointedly with his tongue between his teeth as she pulled down the slit of her dress to cover her thighs.

Killian reached over her and pulled her seatbelt, the backs of his knuckles brushing over her shoulder and her breasts, then over her stomach and down to her right hip.

“I would have opened your door. Must you always be so commanding?”

She heard the click of the seatbelt and remembered to breathe. She felt her breath ricochet off of Killian’s face, his nose nearly touching hers. He inclined his head and licked his lips, closing his eyes and exhaling a breath of his own.

She lifted her brows. “I didn’t know you were a gentleman.”

He blinked and looked chagrined. “Swan, I’m sorry for my behavior earlier. I was appallingly uncouth.”

His apology caught her off-guard. “Killian, I – “

“I’m usually a gentleman.” He looked down at her lips, swallowing and clenching his jaw. “You just seem to catch me off guard.”

She was surprised at that, and the confession stirred her, his nearness entrancing. “I could say the same thing about you.”

“Really?” He brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. 

She closed her eyes, wanting so badly to give in to him and this and just be. His touch was frightening and electrifying at the same time. Her pulse quickened. “Yeah.” 

_Coherent thought, Emma?_

“Do you know how to drive a stick?” His lips brushed hers. She felt it recoil through her chest, settling in her diaphragm. She swallowed. 

“Yes,” she whispered, reaching her tongue out to lick his. He grunted and exhaled a shaky breath. 

_Good._ He was just as affected as she was. She pulled her leg out through the slit of her dress, and he grasped her inner thigh, scraping his nails as he ran his hand down her leg and over her calf.

“Do you want to drive? Or do you want to _drive_?” She whispered in his ear, running her nails through his scruff. 

He tightened his grip on her leg, and bit his lip. His eyes met hers, as black as pitch in the dim light. He reached up and grabbed her right hand, kissing her knuckles while she dragged her fingers over his lips. She brushed the back of her hand down his neck, mimicking his movements from a few moments before, tugging his bow tie loose. 

He grasped her hand again, and leaned back in his seat, pulling it down to the gear shift. 

“You take the stick. I’ll steer.” His eyes said everything his lips didn’t. 

She nodded, wrapping her fingers around it and watched his long legs press down on the clutch and the brake. It was going to be a long ten blocks to her apartment. _Afterwards_ …well. She was pretty certain this wasn’t going to end with a wave in front of her building. 

He took his foot off the brake and she pushed hard on the stick. He forced his eyes in front of him, checked his mirrors, and punched the gas. The car lunged forward like an animal on the hunt. She watched the speedometer zoom up to 50 km and his thigh muscles clenched as his foot pressed the clutch again and she nudged the leather-wrapped knob gently into third gear. 

The silently thanked the tailors who took the time to craft trousers that hugged his legs that tightly.

They approached Park Avenue and the light turned red. She slid her heels off, meeting his eye and watching him pump the clutch as she pulled the stick back and up again into first gear. 

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Where is your apartment?” 

“325 East 64th. The Bakery Building.”

The light turned green. He released the clutch and pumped the gas, switching into the right lane. He pumped the clutch again, and she pulled back again into second gear, then third. A few blocks down, they approached 2nd and slowed down together to turn.

“I don’t mean to upset you, Emma,” he pulled his hand over hand to turn right, then slipped his left hand over her right on the knob, pressing in the clutch and shifting into second gear, “But I think we make quite the team.” The light in front of them turned red and he kept his hand over hers, pressing the clutch again and grunting as he pulled the stick into neutral. He leaned over the console and took his hand off of hers to grab the back of her head as he sucked her bottom lip.

She pulled back and tilted her head, meeting his lips again and opening her mouth to brush her tongue against his. He groaned, releasing hot breath into her mouth. She could smell and taste the champagne from earlier as they deepened the kiss. 

The sound of a horn honking behind them pulled them apart. Emma glanced up.

“Green light.” She put the car into first. 

“Hope so.” Killian muttered as he sped ahead into traffic.

The rest of the drive down second was quiet, and Emma took a moment to catch her breath and really think about what she was doing. She was taking Killian back to her apartment, and he would be there, making love to her in her bed, her floral duvet and sheets around them. She couldn’t quite make the image of womanizing bad-boy Killian Jones and her floral sheets mesh. She giggled.

He passed the CVS and slowed down, hand over hers again on the stick. Did she have condoms in her nightstand? She looked down, seeing his manicured nails, pinky ring, and wristwatch. His impeccable tuxedo jacket, satin lapels, crisp white shirt. His jaw clenched as he caught her stare. She felt the warm heat of arousal blossoming in her stomach. 

He was a thief. She’d prove that. But he was also a thrill-seeker, and there was no harm in that as long as things were returned after they were borrowed. Besides, she wouldn’t make any money off of the Dali at this point. He’d probably lawyer up and tie David up in court for ages. It was looking like a bleak prospect at this point. Besides, he was pretty, and she was tired of holding him at arm’s length.

He pulled into the parking garage across from her building, rolling down her window at the ticket dispenser. She pulled it out, and the garage door opened. She cringed at the idea of his luxury car in the same parking garage that housed her ’74 Beetle. He parked it away from the other cars, and she popped the knob into neutral as he pulled back on the parking brake. 

He pulled the keys out of the ignition and sighed, looking over to her, raking his hair back with his hand. Did he look nervous? Killian Jones, with his reputation…God, what was she doing? But she could cut the sexual tension between them with a knife. And, damn. He was pretty. She spent long enough dancing around him. She was sure it would be good with him. Just this once. Why not treat herself? 

“So, how about you come inside for a nightcap?” She blurted out before she could talk herself out of it.

“I thought you’d never ask.” His eyes lit up and he bit his lip. 

 

They lay in bed after, sated, spent. She looked down at their hands, loosely clasped beside her. Her running her fingers through his chest hair, feeling her heartbeat and her breathing slow down. The light from the lamp on her nightstand illuminated his tan skin, making it look bronze against her pale sheets. She looked up at his face and saw his eyes closed, looking youthful and flushed.

She had been wrong about Killian Jones, and the revelation scared her, warring with tenderness blooming in her chest. She had called him pretty, but now she realized that was just a diversion to distance herself from her attraction to him. He was very handsome, yes, masculine without apology, archetypal, and an expressive lover. He had made love to her, however. He hadn't just tossed her into bed. Pretty men didn't hold her hand as he had in the lift to her apartment. He had neatly backed her into the bedroom and known exactly where the hidden zipper on her dress was. He didn’t balk that her underwear were cotton (and green), and he had taken her earrings out. She felt moved by his elegance and understanding, but not intimidated by it. 

She untangled her legs from his and moved to get out of the bed. He started and grabbed her hand, opening his eyes and looking up at her.

“Emma – “

“I’ll be right back.” She didn't know why she felt the need to reassure him, but then he smiled and watched her walk backwards out of the room.

She washed her hands in the bathroom sink, taking in her bright eyes, flushed chest and neck in the mirror, places where his beard burned her skin. She pulled her hair back and looked over her neck, noticing a few love bites that would probably fade by morning. 

_Would he stay?_

_Did she want him to stay?_

The question was answered when she walked back into her bedroom. He was asleep. She climbed into bed and lay down next to him, too engrossed in her own thoughts to sleep herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google street view will never know just how much they contributed to this. Ever driven an Aston Martin? They're sexy as hell. There's a reason they're Bond cars.


	3. Full Disclosure

The first thing Emma noticed when she woke up was that she forgot to pull the shades over her windows. Sunlight streamed into her bedroom, blinding her with brightness, and she yanked a pillow down over her head. At least she remembered to turn the white noise machine on last night (a courtesy for her neighbors so they didn’t overhear anything, and a godsend for mornings she didn’t want street noise waking her six floors down). 

She squinted and stretched under the sheets, groaning at the ache in her head from champagne followed by too little sleep. Her foot wandered over, feeling cold sheets next to her and the absence of the warm man she fell asleep next to. 

Sitting up sharply brought the pillow down over her bare chest and she covered her eyes at the bright light again, peering around the room. Killian wasn’t here. She sighed. _Figured._ Pulling the covers back, she noticed her robe draped across the post at the foot of her bed. She grabbed it and trudged across the hall, stopping midway to the bathroom to look to her left. 

Killian was standing in her dining room wearing unbuttoned black chinos and a navy blue tee shirt, typing on his phone with a matching button-down shirt over his arm. Another man stood with his back to her, very young-looking, blonde, slight frame, arranging pastries on her tiered serving tower. Her dining table was set with a cloth, china, flowers, fruit, juice, and her coffee press. 

Killian noticed her, turned from his phone and his mouth dropped, eyes grew wide before darting over to where the young man stood obliviously assembling food. She caught his stare and looked down, noting her naked state and robe in hand, and ran swiftly into the bathroom, closing the door. 

_Well, that was peculiar,_ she thought.

She took a brief glance in the mirror, noting the wild disarray of her hair and pillow marks on her face. Making quick work of her morning toilette, she overheard Killian talking to the man.

“That’s quite alright, Felix, I can take it from here.” 

She ran a brush through her hair, twisting it into a chignon and securing it with a clip, and then donned her robe before stepping out. The young man, Felix, was in her entryway, picking up a train case and garment bag before he looked over to her and smiled. 

“Good morning, Miss Swan.” He addressed her as if he saw her every day, not as if they had just met.

“Uh. Good morning.”

“Emma, this is Felix, my personal assistant. He brought over my effects, as you can see.” He looked back and forth between them, swinging his torso as he hooked his thumb in his belt, looking pleased to make the introduction. 

“If that will be all, Mister Jones and Miss Swan?” He nodded politely to her and Killian, clearly at ease with the awkward business of standing in a stranger’s living room.

Killian handed him keys and his dress shoes from last night. “The car is on the third floor, space twenty-three. Call Greg and have him bring a town car around at ten.”

Felix nodded, walked over to the front door, and let himself out.

Killian, who was now fully dressed, turned and walked towards her. He tilted his head, reached out to gently grasp her upper arms. He had a curious look on his face; it was difficult for her to read him. He cleared his throat.

“Good morning, Emma.” He pulled her close and kissed her forehead. 

“Hi.” She pulled back and blinked. 

Killian gave her a puzzled look. “Are you alright? I’m sorry to have startled you.” He seemed different this morning – open and diffident at the same time, as if trying to feel her out.

She opened her mouth and took a deep breath. She must have been holding it. Truthfully, she was shocked by the fact that not only had Killian stayed through the night, he had apparently woken up early this morning and had breakfast _and_ a fresh change of clothes delivered by his personal assistant. 

She felt a little out of her league and overwhelmed. 

He was patiently waiting for her answer. Right. Words.

“I guess I’m just surprised that you stayed this morning. What time is it?”

Killian looked at his watch. “A quarter after nine. I thought we might have breakfast together.” He walked over to the table and pulled out a chair. She followed and sat down, taking in the elegant spread. Her heart warmed at the sight of the small vase of gerberas, her favorites, and her beloved set of Sutherland china. She smiled, and ran her finger over the gold fluted rim, pink rose blossoms and duck-egg blue. It was one of the many antiques she had collected but rarely used. She felt a certain fondness for the pieces she carefully selected over time.

“Thank you for doing this.” She said softly. Her apartment was her haven, and she rarely felt inclined to invite friends over for dinner or share breakfast with one-night stands. The idea that her recent adversary-turned-lover would take the time to plan the morning after with her was touching, and she found that she liked it, even if it was out of the ordinary for her. She was beginning to like many things about Killian, and that worried her.

“My pleasure.” He brought her out of her reverie, pressing the plunger on the carafe of coffee and pouring it into her cup before serving himself. Every movement he made was graceful, neat. She added cream to her coffee while he spooned sugar into his, proffering it to her. “Sugar?”

She shook her head, and took in the trays of arlettes, croissants, chocolate brioche, quiche, madeleines, tarts, cronuts, kouign amanns, and profiteroles. Only one bakery in the city made food that looked that glorious, and there was a ton of it. 

“Your assistant brought these over from Dominique’s? The line is usually out the door there.”

He took a plate and placed a few pastries on it, then set it down in front of her. “Usually, yes, but Felix lives in Soho, and arrived early to avoid the queue.” He wiped his hand on a napkin and pulled it into his lap after serving himself. “I took the liberty of ordering several things from the menu. I didn’t know what you’d prefer.” 

“I’m usually a sucker for the DKA’s, but their cronuts are worth waiting in twenty-degree weather for. Done that a few times.” She dipped her finger into the icing on top of her cronut, and brought it to her mouth. His eyes darted to her, and he licked his own lips as she sucked the confection of her finger. She took a sip of her coffee, creamy bitterness and giddy aroma immediately taking the edge off of her headache. “I don’t figure you for the standing-in-line type. I bet young Felix there had to leave his pretty girlfriend in bed to run down there early in the morning to get his boss’s laundry and breakfast.”

He rolled his eyes. “Boyfriend,” He corrected, sipping his own coffee, “And Felix is paid well for the inconvenience.” 

Emma scoffed. She had worked her way up from bail-bondsman in college to the FBI while getting her masters, gritting her teeth at every crap job they threw at her so she could get experience. Guys like Killian just seemed to have the world fall at their feet. Hell, she had even fallen at his feet. She wondered shamefully if she had been a foregone conclusion for him. She thought back to Felix’s familiarity with her earlier, and she worried if this was just what Killian did, bedding women and brunching and buying their panties off, until he was bored and onto the next woman to capture his attention. 

Speaking of conquests… “So, would you consider your night at the Frick a success? Did you pillage and plunder, or was that what came after?”

He looked taken aback. He set his coffee cup down and held her gaze.

“Emma, whatever you think you know about me, last night was not some frivolous conquest.” His tone was gentle, coaxing, even though she could tell he was upset by her accusation. “Whatever we become, it’s up to you as much as me.”

She was stunned. “Do you really think there’s a happily-ever-after for people like us?”

“I wouldn’t be that optimistic, but I hope that last night wasn’t a brief dalliance.”

“Killian,” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Men make women _messy_.” She shook her head slowly and opened her eyes, meeting his. He gave her a sympathetic look, crooking up the corner of his mouth.

“Now, see, there’s where you’re wrong, Swan.” He leaned over and took her hand in his, lacing his fingers with hers on top of her knee. “You’re a dynamic, beautiful woman. A worthy adversary for a man like me. I admire you for your tenacity and verve. A relationship with me won’t make you any less than you already are. All you have to do is trust me.”

“That’s the thing, Killian,” she slid her hand out from his and looked at him sadly, shaking her head, “I can’t trust you. I know you stole the Dali. I know you’ve stolen other antiquities. I know you have relations with forgers and fences all over the globe. Art’s a small world.”

“And you surmise that someone who potentially has those connections and blemishes cannot possibly be trustworthy in a romantic relationship?” He leaned back and clenched his fist on his knee, irritated.

“I know you aren’t.” She met his heated stare with her own. “You’ve kept me close, been everywhere I’ve been, because you don’t want me snooping around and finding out more than I know.” She was provoking him, but she wanted answers. She’d waited three goddamn months for them.

He fidgeted, running his thumb over his fingers. “At first, yes, but after awhile I simply enjoyed our diversions and only sought to get to know you.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “That’s all, Swan.” 

“So you don’t care about getting caught?” 

He cocked his head with a cool smile and blinked. “Back to that?”

She leveled him with a glare.

“Of course I care,” He said quietly, taking a deep breath, “but even though we’re quite different, I’m beginning to think that your moral code isn’t so different from my own.”

“I guess I won’t know unless you ‘fess up.”

“One of us is going to have to lay our cards on the table, Swan.”

“I suppose it’s gonna have to be you.”

“In confidence or attributable to your investigation?” He looked insistent.

She considered that. Allowing for their interactions of late, he was telling the truth. Usually, Emma could sniff out a lie, but she saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes, heard the seriousness in his voice. Last night, at their most vulnerable, he hadn’t looked away from her or walled himself off. It was affectionate, nothing false or misleading. This wasn’t a one-time-thing for him, she realized. She couldn’t trust him entirely until she knew who she was dealing with. 

“You have my word that anything you say here is between you and me, but if you’re wrong and our ethics don’t match up, I continue my investigation.” She picked up the cronut and leaned back, assessing him. “Deal?” 

He smiled and his eyes lit up. “Deal.” He picked up his coffee cup and toasted her.

She folded her legs up into the chair and pulled her robe around them. The pastry was sticky between her fingers as she tore off a piece, popping it into her mouth. She moaned. It was delicious. Dominique Ansel was worth every penny of the small fortune Killian paid for melt-in-your-mouth pastry.

“So, now you tell me what’s going on.” She didn’t ask. 

He gave her a speculative glance over his cup and sighed. “It’s going to disappoint you.” 

“Let me be the judge of that.”

He looked down and traced the delicate pattern of flowers on the plate in front of him, contemplating.

He took a deep breath. “You know… _Of course_ you know…the lucrative market of art forging?”

She nodded, chewing. 

He bit into a profiterole and chewed for a moment, swallowing. “You also know that antiquity trafficking is inadvertently funding the Islamic State.” He raised his eyebrows in question.

“Due to the absence of regulation in the global art market, yes.” She also knew that he knew about that, but she kept tight-lipped.

“When I was first with the LME, I came across several occurrences of artificially inflated prices of commodities, not the least of which was a growing trend to modify the price of copper in the Middle East, a plan that would have wreaked havoc on the economy there, not to mention around the globe.”

“Still not seeing the connection.”

“I went to Syria. I went to Iraq just after the fall of Saddam Hussein.” He ran his hand over his face and snorted. “I had never seen such corruption, and I traded in commodities. It was disturbing to say the least. While I was there, I was persuaded to turn a blind eye to the audit I was overseeing, because I was convinced by the investors that the only way to aid the weakened economy in the region was to allow the manipulation of the price.”

Her eyes widened.

“I was _weak_ , young, easily influenced. I began dealing in art. I convinced myself I was doing it for honorable reasons. Terrorist groups were destroying artifacts. I was keeping art sacred by smuggling it out of the Middle East using my contacts in commodities. Five years later, I became Assistant Director of my division. It was easy to bribe the authorities. I often used my brother’s connections in Kallithea to smuggle antiques into port and bypass customs.”

Emma drew in a shaky breath. He really did it. The son-of-a-bitch thought he was doing the world a favor by fencing stolen goods with the sanction of the government. He really was a pirate. “What did you do with the money?”

“I moved it around: Switzerland, Singapore, and Saint Kitts. I kept many of the conspicuous pieces in storage that I couldn’t sell. My part in the whole operation was small; it’s a profitable market, as you well know.”

She took a deep breath and asked, “What does this have to do with the theft at the Venus?”

He looked down, reluctant. He swallowed. “A year ago, I was visiting my brother in Greece. As we were out sailing the Mediterranean, vacationing on Mykonos, a young boy was being photographed on the other side of the same sea in Turkey. A wee lad who drowned in attempt to escape the people my callousness had financed. My outlook on the situation changed greatly.”

“I remember that. I still don’t see the connection.”

“Emma, I’m a finance bore, and I know how to gain the best profit in any business. If there’s money to be had forging art, I’m going to find out how to take advantage of the market. That’s what I did. I took the Dali to get the corners of the drawing so a forger could recreate it because our buyer would pay double the price as a collector.”

She was in shock. The corners. Of course. Nobody saw the corners of a painting unless they were in the presence of the original out of its frame. He stole the goddamn painting. Forged it. Mailed it back. But – 

“Why?”

“Because I’m using the money to privately fund refugee resettlement.” 

She barked out a loud laugh, meeting his chagrined stare with her incredulous one. “ _What?!_ You mean to tell me that you’re basically pulling a Robin Hood act, stealing and forging to give money to _charity?!_ That’s insane, Killian.”

“Emma, listen to me.” He looked into her eyes earnestly. “The cost of privately funding an individual refugee is approximately ten thousand dollars for the first year. A well-designed, privately funded program would oblige the federal government to admit refugees whenever private funds become available. They wouldn’t need to wait for funds from Congress, and it would ease the political resistance while skirting around the publicly funded quota. I’ve been back-and-forth to Boston setting the program up for several months.”

Realization dawned on her. “That’s why you were so cagey about the boutique investment firm you’re starting. You don’t want to draw unwanted attention – “

“And political pressure.” Killian added, nodding. “I’m trying to do this as quietly as possible. I know I’m not doing everything by the book, and this all seems cloak and dagger, and you might always see me as nothing but a common thief, but I only want to be a help to those I let suffer from my own selfishness.”

She took a long drink of her coffee, draining the cup. This was a lot to take in on a Saturday morning, with a man she just spent the night with. A man she thought she knew. Killian Jones was a lot easier to judge as the villain. She put her fingers to her temples and sighed. “I’m supposed to believe that Killian Jones, millionaire playboy, is really a bleeding-heart liberal attempting human-rights reform.”

He shook his head. “I know you’re skeptical, Swan.” His voice was tender. “I would be, too. Men like me don’t change with the tides of war – I profited from it – but we do change when forced to see the atrocities of human suffering first hand. That drowned boy changed me.”

“So, what am I supposed to do now?” She looked at him fully, seeing the sincerity in his eyes. She really wanted to trust him. She shared her body with him, and he was right, last night wasn’t just a one-night-stand. She didn’t know what it was, but she didn’t know if she could go forward – forward with him, the investigation, anything. She felt stuck. The Dali was back in its spot at the Venus, the forgery in a private collection, and thirty people would get a chance at life because of one copy.

“You’re gonna have to choose, Emma,” He leaned in closer to her, capturing her gaze with his own intense stare, “because neither one of us are gonna give up.”

Where they talking about the same thing? The investigation was curtailed and at a dead end. She hedged. “The only thing I have to choose is whether or not to give up on this investigation.”

“And you will.” It wasn’t a question. He was certain of it. 

“Why would you assume that?” 

“Because the drawing is back in its place, the forgery part of a sentimental attachment to the artist, and you can choose to trust me because your moral judgment of me was based on my indifference and wealth, not my principles.”

“And you chose principles.” 

He quirked an eyebrow, looking hurt. “Does that surprise you?” 

“Well, you are an entrepreneur.” It was quite the tale he spun – from privateer to philanthropist.

He nodded and looked down, seeming bothered by her assessment. “That I am, but I have come to believe in good form. So, if I’m to win your heart, Emma – if I’m to convince a woman like you to take a chance on a scoundrel like me – I have to wear my heart on my sleeve.” 

“So what do you suggest?” She wasn’t considering this, was she?

“You have access to my financial records,” he pursed his lips and looked around the room, “Use them. My attorney, Neal Cassidy, is the manager of the trust in Saint Kitts I’ve moved money to for the last year from Switzerland and Singapore. The funds are distributed to the non-profit.”

So she could check if he was telling the truth. She got it. She nodded, her overwhelmed psyche settling into numb withdrawal at his disclosure.

He looked at his watch. “I have to go. I’ve a car waiting for me downstairs, but I’d like to see you again when you’re ready.” He stood. “I’ll call you.”

She rose and followed him to the entryway. He turned to her with his hand on the doorknob.

“Emma, I know your heart is uneasy, but please consider what I’ve said. I didn’t only give you my admission to get you off my back.” He reached out to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, cupping her cheek. “I’ll give you space, but I want this. I want you. I meant every word – I won’t give up.” 

So, that was what he meant. He wouldn’t give up on her. She looked up into his eyes, moving gradually closer to him. He fluttered his eyelids, looking down at her lips. Emma took the initiative and laid her hand on his chest, reached up on her tiptoes, and met his warm lips with her own. His response was soft, tentative. He slid his hand to the nape of her neck and sighed as they broke apart, a look of consternation on his face. 

He drew his knuckles over her shoulder and down her arm before stepping back and opening the door. She closed her eyes, listening to the door click closed and his retreating footsteps down the hall.


	4. Glory Box

On Thursday afternoon, the doorbell startled Emma away from the email she was reading on her laptop. An advertising manager’s housewife had purchased what she thought was an original Bradley Hubbard chain oil lamp at an auction, but suspected it was a fraud because the patent stamp didn’t match the one she viewed online. Emma quickly jotted a few notes, and then walked out of her office to the door of her apartment to speak into the intercom.

“Six-oh-three.”

“Leroy with Snap Delivery,” barked the gravelly voice, “I gotta package for an Emma Swan.” She smiled at his diphthong on her last name and let him up. Brooklynites had her favorite accent. 

He didn’t smile back as she signed for the parcel, but he doffed his cap before he took off toward the elevator, whistling a tune.

She slid her finger through the fold of the Kraft paper, carefully unwrapping the rectangular package.

Inside was a beautifully framed print. It was an impressionist painting, the vibrant colors of the sunset dissolving into a blistering horizon over a glistening, calm sea. Cotton clouds speckled the sunburst-lit sky, broken by the approaching evening, cerulean blue with an allusion of indigo. The corner was signed by the artist, _R. Wheater._ It was lovely and invoked soft warmth, serenity at odds with the storm that had been raging in her heart for several days.

A piece of paper was clipped to the sawtooth on the back, and she pulled it off. She laid the print on the coffee table and opened the heavy parchment to find hand-penned note:

_The horizon. I thought you might find it calming._  
_-K_

His words came back to her from last weekend, his understanding of her uneasiness. She felt touched by his concern.

Tears welling in her eyes, she smiled delicately as she began a walk around her apartment for just the right spot to hang it. 

***

“You’re ending the investigation?” David Nolan’s voice sounded tinny from speakerphone on his end. “Okay, but I thought you said the Venus theft might be connected to some bigger heists.”

Emma exhaled the breath she was holding. “I’m still looking into that, but with the drawing back at the gallery, and the exhibit having closed months ago, that part is a done deal until something comes up. Whoever borrowed the drawing used one-off pay thugs.” She was having trouble stretching the truth. David was a nice guy, and nice people didn’t come easy in her neighborhood. He and his wife, Mary Margaret, were some of the most pleasant clients she’d ever had. They were good acquaintances as well, and networking was difficult in a world where private investigators were being surpassed by the internet. If word somehow got back to them that Killian Jones was behind the forgery, she could be suspect, even if it was a long shot that the forgery would be discovered. Even then, the buyer would have to report it, and if he bought it for a private collection, that was highly implausible.

“Emma? Are you okay?” Shit. She must have zoned out.

 _Breathe, Emma._ She practiced an old trick – smiling while she spoke. “Yeah, why?” 

“You sound out of breath.” A horn sounded in her ear, and he yelled, “ _Long skinny pedal on the right, asshole!_ Yeah, anyway.”

“Oh, just picking some things up around here.” She bent over to straighten some books on her desk for good measure. “Anyway, if something turns up, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks for putting in the hours.”

“Yeah, no problem – Hey, tell Mary Margaret she doesn’t have to cut me a check for the last week. I’ve been sitting on this since the Sèvres exhibit.”

“You know she won’t listen. She thinks you’re poor.” He chuckled. “We’ll see you at the Heart Association Gala, right?” 

Emma crossed her legs as she leaned against the desk, looking at her bare feet with a sad smile at poignant memories. “I never miss it.” Her heart felt heavier. In all of the noise she had forgotten about the Heart Ball. 

They said their goodbyes and she set her phone down on the docking station, rubbing her sweaty palms on her skirt. It was easier to stretch the truth now, having had a week to mull the situation and research Killian’s paper trail. Technically, what he was doing was arbitrage, but it was far more legal than money laundering, and his account in Switzerland wasn’t as water-tight as the trust in Saint Kitts, but there was no link to large deposits or small deposits from multiple accounts. His buyers were smart: they paid from legitimate accounts and reports were filed after negotiable instruments were transferred, no ACH transactions or third party service providers. Everyone had furnished ID, everything was valid. 

She could pull those names, but technically it wasn’t even her job; she’d be aiding the FBI and the IRS. Her biggest dilemma wasn’t that Killian had intentionally defrauded the art community, but that he might be too much for her to get involved with. His revelation still felt too much like an inflated hot air balloon in a space too small. Her heart couldn’t handle the enormity of it, and hope felt like an improbable catch-22. She couldn’t believe in him because he was too immeasurable, but in order to accurately assess him, she needed to believe he had changed. Her mistrust felt like a prison.

She wanted to trust Killian. She liked him. She just didn’t know if she liked him enough to give him her heart. He was giving her space, but she could feel the pull to him. He wasn’t far from her thoughts, the smell of his cologne on her pillows until the cleaning service changed the linens two days ago, gerbera daisies still bright and perky where she moved them to her nightstand, and then there were her memories. Reflections of tan skin on floral sheets, hot breath on her neck, the way he grasped her hips and bit her ears. She hadn’t had chemistry like that with anyone – well, ever, if she was honest with herself. She needed to figure out what Killian was to her: an enemy or lover.

***

“Can I see your ID?” The cashier asked.

“Sure.” Emma rummaged through her wallet and pulled out her driver’s license. 

The young man looked at her license, then back up at her in disbelief. Her license was up for renewal soon. He turned around on the stool and looked back to where his coworker, another young man, stood on a stepladder stocking premium bottles of Jameson. 

“Hey, Peter,” he said, “You see how old this chick is?”

Peter looked down from his perch at Emma’s license in the cashier’s hand and then back up to her, squinting. A surprised grin broke out on his face. “Dude. You’re thirty-five?”

“Dudette. About to be thirty-six.” She gave her widest stance and bitch face and cocked her head, annoyed. “Thanks for the reminder, kid.”

He had the decency to look contrite and turned back around. The cashier handed Emma’s license back to her and busied himself with ringing up the bottle on the counter. “Sorry, you just, um…you look like you’re my age.”

“Quite a compliment.” She flashed him a sardonic smile.

“Fifty-eight-oh-nine.” He didn’t meet her eyes when she handed him her debit card.

She left Beacon Wine & Spirits and turned the corner, heading east on 74th Street, pulling her sunglasses from her bag to filter out the late morning sun. It was cool in the shade, so she stuck to the north side of the street to take advantage of the last vestiges of early autumn warmth. The Upper West Side was charming in its own right, rows of classic stone facades and garbage bins in egresses. There was none of the proper polish and pretentiousness of her current digs on the other side of the park. Here, nobody bothered with the last ten pounds, the Birkin bags, the Escalades or the sleep aids. Here, she could just blend in without designer names, and enjoy brunch with her only ethnic friend provided he wasn’t late again.

August Booth was an eccentric, reasonably handsome minimalist, with just a touch of ego that made him edgy. Emma had a standing date with him for brunch every other Sunday if he was in town, when he wasn’t living out of a backpack and base camping in Nepal, sleeping his way across Thailand, or getting arrested for eating durian in Singapore. He was usually only in the states a few months out of the year. His embellished stories gave her life, hindered her encroaching misanthropy (or disdain for the miscreants she had investigated and sent to prison), even if his own hubris exasperated her. 

Over the two decades they had been acquainted, he was a constant presence and one of the few people she grew to befriend. He sent her links to articles he wrote about anthropology for the various media outlets and cultural magazines he corresponded with, and she read them when she wasn’t elbow deep in a case, living vicariously through his recent trips to Rajasthan and Goa. He also blogged about his travels, detailing local food and culture everywhere he went, and she sought out places around the five boroughs to mimic his experience. It was a way to connect with him from thousands of miles away, when wireless access was sporadic and she couldn’t see him face-to-face.

To her surprise, he was already seated when she crossed Columbus and approached Isabella’s, his leather jacket slung over the back of his chair; she could see his Harley parked by the restaurant next to the curb on 77th. Light green French doors with arched transoms lined the lower concrete façade of the red brick corner building. Directly north stood the Museum of Natural History, trees blocking her view of the southwest turret.

“Hey, princess,” August called as he stood up, smelling of leather, tobacco and pomade as she embraced him over the sidewalk divider. 

“Hiya, punk.” Emma smiled as she exhaled into his henley, scratching her nails over his five o’clock shadow.

He lifted her over the divider and she giggled, the bottle of sake in her bag clinking precariously against the table.

“Whatcha got there?” he asked as she sat down. Emma lifted the bottle and handed it over to him.

“Wakatake,” He inspected the label. “Nice.”

“Consider it a welcome back gift.” She caught her breath and gave him what felt like the first genuine smile she’d tendered all week. 

A waiter interrupted them to take drink orders.

“You would pick a restaurant that forces me to get a lager because it’s the only beer on the menu that isn’t an IPA.” August slid his sunglasses onto his face, the sun behind him barely peeking over the edge of the building.

“You could’ve gotten the guava bellini.” She smirked. He teased her affinity for sweet cocktails. “Isn’t IPA an acronym for India Pale Ale, where you just visited? Isabella’s was a good compromise.”

“Do I need to give you a British history lesson?”

She pursed her lips and gave him a mocking glare.

“No, they had vegetarian food in India. I wanted steak and eggs,” August shifted in his seat, “but I’ll settle for a filet benedict because you’re pretty good company.”

“I’m not driving to Brooklyn to eat at that hipster dive you like. I don’t care how amazing the pancakes are.” Who named their restaurant something like The Rabbithole, anyway? She was surprised the owner’s name wasn’t Alice.

“I guess this is better than that Chantilly Hotel you dragged me to last time.” He ignored the glass the waiter brought with his beer and drank from the bottle instead.

“Hotel Chantelle,” She corrected, taking a generous sip of her cocktail. “I like their rooftop garden and their truffle grilled cheese.” She sniffed. _Gosh_ , she missed his banter. He was always encouraging her to travel with him, explore parts unknown as his cohort. Emma had never traveled any further than Europe in her vocational exploits, and Caribbean beaches were her getaway to be alone and relax from the stressful life of surveillance and inquiry. 

When their food arrived, Emma was feeling the gentle buzz of wine and tropical fruit, the heaviness of the week far too overpowering for a quiet meal between old friends. August sensed her mood.

“Hey, you want me to switch seats with you?” August leaned up in his chair to steady her shoulder. “The sun getting to you?” His concern was palpable, but Emma waved him off.

“No, I just need to eat something,” she started cutting her food vigorously. “It’s been a stressful week.”

“You wanna talk about it?” he poured Worcestershire sauce over his eggs and looked up at her patiently. “After a few more bites, of course.”

Emma tucked in and launched into the abridged version of her latest dilemma, one Killian Jones.

***

The motorbike behind her reflected in his Ray-Bans.

"How long have we known each other?" He spoke over the orchestra of horns and sirens, yelling and revving engines.

She put her fork down and pulled her sweater around her shoulders. October was just around the corner; dining al fresco would be temps passé in a few weeks.

"Since that first night I arrived at Ingrid's when you played Sega with me." She flashed him a saccharine smile.

"Yeah, and in all that time we've been friends, even when we weren't, I always hoped," He turned his head and fixed his sunglasses on her, "One day, you'd meet someone who didn't let you push them away."

"I didn't push you away; you ditched me for your guy friends and lied about a girl beating you at a video game." She sidestepped, weary of the conversation she initiated. "You know, you still owe me that Twix bar you promised for keeping my mouth shut."

"I'll settle for buying your overpriced brunch. Stop evading the subject."

"Well, two decades of inflation, plus interest, I'd say that's parity for a dish of eggs florentine."

“You think you’ve got the moral high-ground on this guy, but the truth is he’s after you, and you’re scared. You’ve been scared since Graham died.”

She sighed. Bantering was over. They did this many times over the years. He was plying her with truth, hoping she’d lose her temper and admit to her fear of relationships. She still choked up occasionally over the shoelace she kept tucked away in her nightstand. Other than his generous life insurance policy and a photo album, it was the only thing she still had that tied her to him. 

Graham Humbert was a lanky, tawny-haired, good-natured New York City police officer. Emma had married him at the courthouse after a three-month courtship and a two-week engagement. A few months after they were married, Graham collapsed a quarter mile into a morning run. He was pronounced dead upon arrival at the hospital. The autopsy reported the cause of death to be coronary artery disease, rare for someone so young. 

She had gone from single to grieving widow in less than a year. It was over before it even started.

She took a deep breath. “I’ve been over Graham for years.”

“It’s been ten years since he died.” he took off his sunglasses and leveled his gaze, “You haven’t dated anyone since.”

“I – I see people,” she stuttered.

“See people as you’re walking out the morning after.” August rolled his head back and looked up at the sky. “Look, you might know how to read other people easily, but you don’t see yourself clearly in this situation.”

Emma settled back into her chair, fixing her gaze on him. He couldn’t see her eyes through her sunglasses, but she knew he had gotten her attention. “How so?”

“This guy might be a spook,” he tented his hands over his plate, “but he understands you, and God only knows why, but despite that he wants to be with you.”

“Okay, I’m a bit prickly, but I’m certainly not hateable.” Emma looked at him skeptically, and then gave him a small smile. “Killian did make his wishes clear, but this might be too much.” 

He smiled fondly, concerned. She felt the weight and depth of two decades of shared heartache, of 2 a.m. phone calls that lasted until well past dawn, horrendous long distance bills before cell phones and skype and facetime.

“You like this guy. You want some reason to believe it will work; otherwise you wouldn’t be so upset.”

“You have to admit the whole thing is a little farfetched.”

“Yeah, but did his story check out?”

Emma nodded, looking down at her lap. 

“Then take a leap of faith and consider the possibility that this guy might be exactly who you need.”

She picked at her cuticles, refusing to look up at him, the edges of her rationale crumbling. “I spent three months trying to prove he was a thief and a liar. You’re telling me to look past the evidence and see the man behind the mask – what if he isn’t wearing one?”

“God, Emma, nobody’s perfect, have a little faith in the guy.” He cocked his head, exasperated. “After everything you’ve seen, why can’t you just do it?”

“Why is it so important to you that I do?”

“Because I want you to be happy. I mean he’s taking a risk on you, too,” August took a sip of his water, “otherwise he wouldn’t be so honest with you. You wanna know what else?”

“No.”

“He’s got money.”

The waiter brought their check over. Emma pushed it in August’s direction.

“I’ve got money, too.” Her ears went red and she sucked in a deep breath. “Not like that, but Graham’s annuity has matured and now I can work for myself without worrying about falling on my ass.”

“Yeah, but you hold on to it like you’re gonna run out of it tomorrow.” He leaned forward after stuffing cash into the bill folder. “And I get it; we didn’t get a lot as kids. I was there. But his money intimidates you.”

She felt the familiar clench in her stomach when she thought about the people she consorted with, and she knew that he was right, but she hedged, fiddling with the tablecloth. “It’s a lot to take in, and I’ll never be his equal or fit seamlessly into his lifestyle.”

He tilted his head and she ducked her head to avoid his sympathetic stare. “Emma Swan, you are a beautiful, sexy, intelligent woman. You’re successful. You deserve to be happy.”

“I don’t need a man to make me happy.” She gave him a fierce look. “Don’t get nineteen-fifties on me, Booth.”

August reached across the table and took her hand in his, squeezing her palm and locking her gaze. “Of course not, Emma, but love is a part of all happiness, and you have to be open to that.”

Emma felt the rush of emotion that had been all too familiar in the last week. She could feel the tears welling beneath her eyes, the heat in her face at his words. “I don’t even know what to say to him.”

August released her hand and leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his lips, his dimples more pronounced now than when he was a teenager, but the glint in his eye as mischievous as ever. “It’s a good thing your best friend is a writer, then.” He spread his hands in invitation.

She let out the breath she was holding and laughed, relieved that he knew just how to cut the tension between them. She was grateful for his gesture. It occurred to her that perhaps that was what Killian was waiting for from her. A gesture. “Thanks,” She looked up at the clear sky, an idea forming in her head, “But I think I can figure this one out. I appreciate the offer.”

"Any time, princess.” 

***

North Cove Marina was a sliver of serenity with a lovely vantage of the New Jersey skyline and the Hudson. The World Trade Center loomed behind Brookfield Place, gleaming and almost blinding in the afternoon sun. In the distance, Ellis and Liberty Island jutted out of the river, The Statue of Liberty a commonplace work of art and virtue in the harbor. 

Emma had always felt hidden in the forest of skyscrapers. In New York, one could be whoever they wanted to be. New York wasn’t full of damaged orphans, but nobody had to know she was one. Here, she had reinvented herself, carved a name and a life surrounded by people who were doing the exact same thing. New York wanted her, had accepted her and taken her in with her flaws, and waited for her to grow and become the woman she wanted to be. She might not always live here, but she would always be a New Yorker.

She strolled down the brick walkway Killian’s boat was moored next to. The Marina hosted several water vessels, from ostentatious yachts to humble aluminum sailboats. She noticed him before he saw her, and she took advantage of being out of sight to admire this physique. He was wearing dark jeans and a simple navy polo shirt, tortoise-shell sunglasses hiding his eyes, his dark hair whipping around his head like a halo in the wind. She snorted that someone so devilishly handsome would be considered remotely angelic, his own clean lines noticeable as he leaned across the bow to polish the deck. Her stomach flipped at the sight.

Emma didn’t know much about boats or sailing, but she knew his boat was distinctive among the stylish cruisers surrounding it. It fit him, somehow. It was traditional and exceptionally elegant, wooden hull accented with forest green paint; it was a curio, unusual and intriguing in its own right. 

“Ahoy!” She called as she approached the gangway. 

He looked up in surprise. “Emma.” He walked across the deck towards her and held out his hand to help her up on deck. “I wasn’t expecting you.” He smiled as she stepped down, gripping her fingers a moment longer and dragging his thumb across her knuckles. He released her and raked his hand through his hair. 

“I thought I’d surprise you.” She smiled up at him, suddenly anxious that this was the worst idea ever.

“I am that.” He nodded, looking puzzled. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I texted Felix.” She laughed nervously and looked down at her shoes, steeled herself and looked back up at him, thankful for the cloak of tinted eyewear. “He told me where to find you.”

He cocked his head and smirked. “My assistant is on your speed-dial, Swan?” He was enjoying this. He knew she was nervous and he was baiting her. 

She rolled her eyes. “I have a file on you, and I’m not above using it when I need to ask you something important.” Her loose hair whipped around her face and he reached out to sweep it behind her ear, reminding her of the last time she saw him. He was always touching her somehow: his hand on her back, his extended hand or elbow to escort her, even as enemies. His hand over hers on the gear shift, nails scratching down her leg, his kiss on her lips, her palm, her breasts. She shivered and licked her lips. 

He looked disappointed. “I’m an open book. Ask away.”

“I got your gift,” she said quietly, holding off asking the question she came here for, keeping him in suspense. “I hung it in my office.”

He nodded, looking down. “Were you wondering about its acquirement?” His voice sounded sad, disenchanted. 

“No, I figured it was legit. Besides, it’s a print.” She looked at the mast behind him. This was easier when she didn’t have to look him in the eye.” I’m not here to discuss your case.”

“Then why are you here?” He pursed his lips, irritated.

She took a deep breath. “The Heart Association is hosting a fundraiser gala in two weeks and I don’t have a plus one. I was hoping you were free.” 

He dropped the towel he was holding and raised his eyebrows in surprise before reaching down to pick it up. He tossed it somewhere over his shoulder and fixed her with a bewildered look, his mouth slightly open as he regrouped. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you out?”

“I never considered you to be the old-fashioned type.” She simpered. “Besides, I was worried you had given up on me.”

He shook his head. “Not a chance. I was giving you space, remember? Time to think.”

“I did. I still am.”

“Jury’s still out?”

“Given your history, can you blame me for being uncertain?”

Killian scratched his sideburn with his index finger, another nervous tell. “I happily accept your invitation on one condition – you let me plan an evening between now and the gala. Perhaps we could take in the harbor aboard my boat.” He smiled and licked his lips.

She took off her sunglasses, looked him in the eye and held out her hand. “Deal.”

He took it and pulled it up to his lips, brushing them across the inside of her wrist. She cupped his cheek as he stepped closer, tucking his finger under her chin to lift her face and bring her up and into his embrace. The kiss was sweet and gentle, and he inhaled sharply when she tilted her face to deepen it, brushing her tongue against his. She leaned back and beamed at him, hope blossoming in her chest. She had missed him this week, and she allowed herself to admit that she wanted him, even if he came with complications. 

He bit his lip as a boyish grin lit up his face. “Now, Swan, would you like a tour of my humble little rowing boat?” He turned around and swept an arm towards the deck. “As you can see, this is a handsome little topsail schooner, very manageable for two people to sail alone.” He looked over and winked at her.

“Is that so?” She ran her hand over the main boom, stroking the strong oak beam.

His smile never faltered as he raised an eyebrow and continued. “I got her for a steal – er – _bargain_ in Gloucester. She’s made of oak, as you can see, and I’ve had her refitted in teak planks, along with a step in the deck at the aft to allow for more headroom in the, ah, aft sleeping cabin.” 

She snickered and stuck her tongue in her cheek. This might be more fun than driving his car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graham's story is personal for me. My neighbor died at the very young age of 23 from coronary artery disease the same way, running one morning. If it runs in your family, get screened early. On a more chipper note, I've been to all of the places mentioned in this chapter. Check them out, and the recommendations plugged into the dialogue. Here's the link for Emma's painting (I hope I did it justice): http://blog.robertwheater.com/tag/sunset/
> 
> and Killian's boat: http://www.woodenships.co.uk/sailing-yachts/topsail-schooner/


	5. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you don't play chess, click on the the link at the end and follow along with the game from the movie, or let me know if you want all of the moves. There's a match in this chapter and I know not everyone plays, so... Also, this chapter is rated M, and definitely smutty.

“You look stunning, Swan.”

Emma smiled, bashful. The dress was a last-minute decision, a red chiffon ball gown with a halter-neck and a low back, her hair fixed in a french-braided updo so much of her skin was exposed. She adjusted her stole as he closed her front door for her. 

The light from the window framed his profile, elegant and ascetic, as always. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” 

She felt the weight of his stare, his awed gaze on her as he held out his arm. Emma placed her clutch under her arm, locked the door of her apartment, and took his extended arm as they walked down the hallway to the lift. He was impressive in his tuxedo, a red brocade waistcoat in place of his cummerbund. 

“I see you got the memo.” She pressed the ground floor button, releasing his arm. He leaned against the wall of the elevator, unabashedly looking her over. She bit her lip and desire warmed her, slipping the stole down to display more of her back. 

Killian licked his lips. “Red.” He looked down over his vest, hands in his pockets. “It is a Heart Gala, after all.” 

They made their way outside, a town car waiting at the curb. He held the door open for her and lowered her into the car.

“What, no green-green?” She teased. “You don’t want to drive while I shift your stick?” She winked at him as she dipped into the seat.

Killian walked around and stepped into the back seat next to her. “I thought we’d arrive less disheveled this way, what with the chauffer to chaperone us.” He quirked an eyebrow and leaned over to give her a chaste kiss on the lips. “Besides, if we over imbibe, I’d rather not drive.”

Emma beamed at him and tucked her hands into her lap. She crossed her legs to expose an expanse of her thigh to him. If looks could kill, she’d be dead on the spot. His eyes bored into hers, wanting. Hungry.

She’d teach him to give her chaste kisses.

It had been two weeks since she asked him out. Two weeks of delightful intrigues, a few quiet dinners, brunch at Fred’s. She was insane with desire, wanton with lust, and he had barely touched her. She recalled a moment outside her apartment the weekend before. 

_“Why haven’t you taken advantage of my inebriated state?”_

_“Well, a fellow likes to be courted.”_

_“Isn’t that a bit like putting the cart before the horse?” She stepped closer to him._

_Killian looked down, pained. “You injure me, Emma.” He looked into her eyes. “Give me a chance to win your affections first.”_

_She nodded at that, but she felt her heart turning over to him already. It scared her and excited her._

They pulled into queue in front of Pier Sixty in Chelsea. Traffic was packed in front of the venue, cars lined along 11th Avenue. The sun was setting on the other side of the glass building, the bustle of the city around them ignorant of the quiet blaze of orange, pink and red. It reminded Emma of the painting in her office. She looked over to Killian, patiently staring out at the crowd of people lined up to grace the red carpet. 

Her door opened finally, a formally-clad gentleman clasping her hand to assist her out of the car. Behind her, Killian appeared, escorting her towards the entrance with a hand on her back. Cameras flashed. Celebrities waved and smiled. They posed for a moment in front of advertising screens, red carpet frenzy ignoring them for more famous gossip fodder. 

When they were finally inside, escorted to their table, Emma recognized her friends. She waved to David Nolan and Mary-Margaret Blanchard as they walked over. 

“Lady M, it’s a pleasure to see you.” She bent over to kiss the cheek of her sometimes-employer.

Mary-Margaret smiled from ear to ear. “Emma! Darling. It’s been a month at least. How have you been.”

“Lovely.” She looked over to her escort for the evening. “Mary Margaret, David, this is Killian Jones, my da – escort for the evening.”

Mary-Margaret looked at Killian, intrigued. “Date or escort, Emma?” She gave him a cheeky grin and looked over to Emma, devious. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Emma gave her a nervous smile. “No, I – it’s just –“

“We’ve only been exclusive for a few weeks.” Killian jumped in, an easy grin on his face. He was good.

He had also just declared their relationship in front of the people who insured the painting he had stolen.

Emma laughed nervously. “Right, it’s new, so we’re taking things slow.”

David shook Killian’s hand. “Well, any friend of Emma’s is a friend of ours. It’s good to meet you, Killian.”

Killian nodded his head, his face giving nothing away. “Likewise.”

 

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t allow these people into our country.” David’s face was blotchy, red ears and firm jaw betraying his irritation. “I’m just saying that we should allow our government to make those decisions in our best interest.”

Killian’s jaw ticked, his fork and knife poised over his plate to fillet his lobster. “If we allow our government to make those decisions without recourse, we undermine the virtues of capitalism and charity, where private donors have no say in the aid to potential citizens.”

“Now you’re spouting poetry, idealism.” David took a sip of his wine and cleared his throat. “I find your argument full of whimsy and lacking in practicality. There just aren’t enough resources to do background checks on refugees and meet the needs of people who will most likely fail to assimilate to our culture.”

Emma and Mary-Margaret exchanged looks over their glasses. The conversation had taken this turn when David and Killian had started discussing politics. Trump and Hillary led to the defense bill on the table, and then to the discussion they were embroiled in, neither man willing to give up his case. Emma found the conversation enlightening. She had heard very little of Killian’s arguments thus far, even if she knew his stance on the refugee crisis. She alone knew what he planned to do about it.

The conversation lasted into the final course, Mary-Margaret chiming in very little to support her husband’s conservative point-of-view, and Emma quietly gathering information about Killian’s position. He was quite passionate about the crisis, and his points were valid. Refugees might not assimilate to the American culture in this lifetime, but future generations would benefit from a country not torn by war and terrorist influence. Killian might have been an idealist, but he was an idealist with means to exact a change, not just spouting nonsense about revolution or social reform. Her jury was coming to a decision. 

Killian Jones was no privateer, but a man changed, a man of his word. Emma shivered, her bare shoulders chilled with gooseflesh. He was far nobler than she had given him credit for.

 

“I apologize for David’s obstinacy.” Emma spoke lowly as she and Killian swayed and stepped to a simple waltz. “He’s a classic capitalist.”

Killian chuckled, deftly stepping in time to the band. “I encounter them every day, darling. He’s passionate. I find it charming.”

“Charming?” She chuckled, legs moving swiftly around his, “He’s a stubborn ass sometimes.”

He laughed outright at that. “You know him better than I do. I’ll take your word for it.”

“Thank you for putting up with him.”

“My pleasure.” He guided her into a turn. “I am curious as to why you chose this particular charity to benefit. You never said.”

Emma stumbled, and Killian quickly righted her, his hand firm on her back. He certainly knew his way around a dance floor. “Ah – family history of heart disease.”

He looked interested. “Are you well, Swan?”

“I’m fine, it’s just –“ She considered, and then decided to tell him outright. “I was married, briefly, in my twenties, to a wonderful man who died of coronary artery disease at a young age. I donate on his behalf.”

He looked taken aback, then answered quietly, “I’m very sorry to hear that, love.”

“What, that I got my heart broken?” She tilted her head, “Or that I was widowed at twenty-five?”

He averted his gaze, clearly saddened. “Both, Emma. You didn’t deserve that.”

“Let’s talk about you. What about this defense bill?”

He took the hint and changed the subject. “Well, the trust will be making a generous lobby to attempt shutting down the new defense bill.”

“What’s riding in it that we mere mortals don’t know about?” She clutched his shoulder as he dipped her. 

He pulled her back up, closer to him as the band switched into different beat, slower. “It severely restricts interpreter eligibility, the very people who risked their lives to aid American soldiers, and doesn’t provide for additional visas. It’s bollocks, pardon me for saying.” His voice passionate, she saw the same irritation he displayed when talking to David. 

A piano played in the background, a song she recognized by Yiruma, soft lifts and minor chords. Maybe it was the music, but she saw the romanticism in his cause, his being so out of place among the wealthy benefactors surrounding them. She saw in him a kindred spirit, out of his depth, his element, among the affluent. Killian Jones was a self-made man, and she was a self-made woman. He was attempting to fix a problem nobody seemed brave enough to address or confront. He was, in short, a hero, and it occurred to her that he was hers for the taking. 

As they danced, eyes only for each other, charming conversations with other donors touched by tragedy, the night sky surrounded them, the city alive for their cause. 

 

“You should come over for dinner next weekend,” Mary-Margaret offered, slipping into her shawl. 

David put his arm around her. “Yes, yes. I enjoyed the debate, Killian. Emma here hardly got a word in edgewise, I feel bad.” He smiled at her, and she reached out to embrace them both, kissing his cheek.

“It’s fine.” She looked over at Killian, who was clasping Mary-Margaret’s hand in farewell. “I was here for the company and the community. You don’t scare me.” 

“I’d love to accompany Emma and join you for dinner.” He looked over at her, reassuring her. 

They said their goodbyes, and slipped into the back seat of the car, riding back towards the Upper East Side, city lights surrounding them for a night that never ended. Emma leaned into Killian, and he slipped his jacket off of his shoulders to cover hers. She tucked the lapels around her, enjoying his scent. 

Killian leaned over and raked over her face with his eyes. “You were wonderful tonight. Care to join me back at my place?” He licked his lips and his eyes dipped in supplication. He was asking, not demanding, but the inference was clear. He wanted her, but he wanted more than just sex. 

So did she. “I’d love to.” She kissed him, gently stroking his chin, his neck, tugging his bow tie undone. The act was so reminiscent of the last time they were this close in his car. “Take me home with you.”

 

She walked around the room, stalking, the sexual tension rising. This was her first visit to Killian’s home, the austere sense of décor very masculine. A leather couched graced the center of the room, tables and bookshelves. Killian sat in a smoking chair next to the bay window that overlooked the street, watching her take in the room. The fire crackled. Her legs slipped around the slits in her dress, teasing him, playing with him. Her heels were discarded on the floor next to a small writing desk, bare toes peeking out beneath the soft red chiffon. She stopped at the table behind the couch, two chairs bordering a chess set, and absentmindedly ran her fingers over the board.

“Do you play?” He asked from the chair, quirking an eyebrow. 

She smiled, feeling the challenge. “Try me.”

He stood up, eyes never leaving hers, and stalked over to the chair opposite to the one she was standing.

_He would pick white for himself, she thought._

He flicked the top button of his shirt open, pulled the chair back with a flourish and sat, leaning back and opening his hand in invitation to the opposing seat.  
Who was she to pass up a game of strategy?

Emma wrapped her fingers around the back of the chair and pulled back slowly, moving around to sit down languidly, crossing her stocking-clad legs to the side of the table so he could see her thighs. She swayed back and forth, shifting in her seat, and rested her hand on the edge of the board, ready. 

His sharp gaze met hers, assessing. 

Game on.

Killian’s eyes never left hers as he reached down to pick up his pawn and open the game. She flicked hers quickly in response, E5 to his E4. He pursed his lips, rubbing his thumb over his index and middle fingers, a nervous tell, she was certain, but he couched it with a quick pass of his knight to F3. 

He licked his lips and ran his fingers down the length of his waistcoat. He was playing this game, too. 

She thought about her next play, absentmindedly, stroking her lips with her fingers. The stimulation helped her concentrate, and she knew it was driving him mad. She could move her bishop out to B4, but Killian could block her access to his king with his rook or his bishop. She didn’t want to make him castle early. She wanted him to feel confident and adept, so she brought her knight from B8 to C6. 

His eyes were glued to her lips. She cleared her throat.

He tapped the edge of the board with his fingers, eyes searching back and forth, likely wondering why Emma would bring her knight into play so quickly. He might also be wondering if his own game would be too aggressive for her, so his next move might give her the impression that he was backing off.

No such luck. 

He whipped his bishop out from F1 to B5, likely in retaliation to quickly seize Emma’s knight. It was her own initial strategy being played back to her. Good.

She pawned to F5. That would suss him out.

Just as he was reaching out, she shifted her weight to her right side and leaned out enough to give him ample view of the outside of her breast through her halter. Pretending to notice the exposed skin, she brushed her knuckles over the side before pulling the material down to give him an eyeful. 

She caught his slack jawed look a second before he narrowed his eyes, snapped his mouth shut, and moved his pawn up to D4. 

He smirked at her, resting his arm on the back of the couch, stretching out and allowing his long legs to encroach on her space. 

He probably thought she was luring him into some trap. It was easier, then, to take his pawn, F to E4. Let him think she had a long game in mind. 

He snorted softly, blinking slowly, and moved his long arm out to take the pawn behind it with his knight. 

_Two could play at that game._

She uncrossed her legs then, straddling the chair, and leaned forward to take his knight with her own in play, leaving it vulnerable to his pawn. She rubbed the head of the horse over her lips, kissing the piece as she tucked it away beside her newly acquired pawn. He’d probably take her knight in retaliation or try to pull a combination, in which case she’d be looking for signs of a smothered mate. All par for the course.

The gloves were off. He licked his lip, scratching his beard with his ringed thumb. _Who knew a thumb ring could be sexy?_ He was trying to figure out her endgame, likely knowing the opening was a giveaway now. He hedged before taking the bait of her knight, jutting his chin out with a cocky smirk and raise of his eyebrows. 

They went back and forth, her pawn to C6, his bishop backtracking to C4, before she pulled out her ace.

Queen to A5.

“Check.”

He bit his lip in concentration, looking from his exposed king to her face, searching for a tell. She wanted him to castle. 

He didn’t. Instead, he brought out his lone knight to C3, valiantly sacrificing another piece. 

She wouldn’t bite. If he wouldn’t castle, if he couldn’t expose his rook, she wouldn’t further expose her queen.

She looked back down. He couldn’t take her queen with his knight, and his bishop wasn’t able to quickly pull up to dispose of her, either. The pawn in E5 could, however, become a nuisance, so she seized it.

Now, her queen was hidden behind her pawn, no longer in harm’s way, two moves from any of his pieces, and his king was at point blank range. She stole a look at him through her lashes. He was nervous. Good.

He finally castled. 

She moved a pawn to D5, forcing his bishop back again to B3. 

Now, she advanced. Her knight pulled out to F6, ready to dispatch behind her queen in case he got any ideas. 

His bishop to E3.

The chess pieces were tall, elegant, and ornately carved. She thought about her next move, breathing in deeply to decide her strategy. Both of her bishops were open now, the most cutthroat pieces she employed. She snapped one quickly to D6 to flank her queen opposite her knight. 

He eyed her warily as he pushed out his pawn with his index finger, concerned about the army mounting in the middle of the board. 

She smiled; licking her lips, and then bit down as her other bishop raced across white tiles to a halt in front of his newly exposed pawn. 

He knew now. He knew her game was all about those bishops and boxing his king in, and he was angry at being taken so ruthlessly. On the surface, he seemed calm, like at the gala, just a hint of a glare as his queen edged forward one space. 

She played her final distraction, reaching out to fondle the piece for her next move, stroking her fingers lightly up and down over the head of her bishop. She watched with avarice as he licked his lips in anticipation, mind no longer on the board. She nudged it gently to F3, fingertip lingering on the head of the tall, marble member of her army. 

That member paved the way for her queen.

Killian shook his head to clear it, and Emma smiled. He had no choice now but to go after her queen, and endure the bloodbath that would ensue.

He moved his bishop to F4, fingers on and off quickly as he met her eyes.

She tucked her queen out of the line of fire at cozy F5, and he moved to fortify his defense with his knight at D1.

She tutted. Poor thing. His rook was all alone. She winked at him. 

Her queen moved in for the kill, threatening his rook from H3, forcing his knight to defend the rook from E3. 

The threat was clear. _If you take my rook, I’ll take your queen._

She had time on her side. She simpered as she scissored two fingers to take her knight to G4.

He was done for. 

He could move his rook out of the way of her queen, but that only left his king wide open. With his bishops blocked, and their knights in a deadlock, he was stalemated. 

Killian scratched his beard. He moved the rook with deft fingers to E1, away from his king.

At least he was willing to die gracefully. She tried not to smile as she took his right-flanked pawn with her queen. 

He moved his ailing king over to the rook’s vacated position, a look of calm resignation on his face, but the play left him in an impossible situation.

With his king in F1, her queen at H2, her bishop at F3, and his own pieces clogging the remaining exits, he swallowed, staring at the board.

Her queen advanced to politely to H1. She stared at him and bit the side of her index finger. 

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

“Mate,” she breathed on a whisper.

He stood, rounded the table as she watched him with wide staring eyes, and pulled her up by her elbow. He was breathing deeply, his hot breath on her face as he glared at her.

Killian didn’t like losing. No surprise there.

“Another round?” She smirked.

“Let’s play something else.”

She leaned up to whisper, darting her tongue out to lick his neck. “I love a good game, the wicked winding streets of the board, the thrill of anticipation,” she brushed her lips over the shell of his ear, “The sweat rolling off of my prey and the rapid beat of his heart as I give chase.”

“I don’t think you’re talking about chess anymore.”

He lifted her up and she wrapped her legs around him, her dress draping down either side of her thighs.

“Take me to bed and find out.”

His eyes could were twin burning sapphires then, before his lashes closed over tanned cheeks and he pressed his lips to hers. She slid back down his trousers, finding her footing. He broke away, a calm seduction about his demeanor. His face was open and loving.

They walked upstairs, hand in hand, as he led her to the bedroom. From here, this moment seemed different than the last time. The first time they slept together, it was physical release after pent-up anger and frustration. This felt like something akin to belonging.

Killian flipped the switch inside his bedroom door, and the bedside lamps illuminated the four-poster bed, wingback chairs in front of another bay window, a wooden valet in the corner next to a tall wardrobe. It was like stepping back in time, elegance and masculine austerity, uniquely intimate. 

He walked backwards to the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on hers, and she felt the intention in his movements. He was leading her, watching her. She didn’t keep men around, and he had surmised as much. His was an invitation to stay, to something more. 

Emma reached up to cup his jaw, relaying the weight of this moment. Last time they were together like this, it was a solitary occurrence. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him gently.

He undressed her slowly, unclasping the halter at the back of her neck, slipping the material softly over her breasts, her hips, and down her thighs before draping it over the corner of the bed. His tie was already undone, and she unbuttoned his vest and slipped the studs from his shirt, easing them from his shoulders, softly slipping clothing and rustling until they were nude, slippery supple kisses, tugging each other down onto the mattress. 

After, she gazed down at him, sweaty-slicked strands surrounding them. Killian reached up to push her hair back from her head and she turned her head to kiss his palm, collapsing against his chest. Words of adoration sat on the tip of her tongue, a sense of finally finding her place in the world. As her breath evened out, she listened to the pounding beat of his heart against her cheek. She hadn’t felt this way in years, this sensation of belonging to someone, of capturing someone’s heart and giving into something. It felt good. It felt right.

 

Emma didn’t know how much later it was when she woke up, aware of soft sheets tucked around her and Killian’s soft lilt coming from somewhere outside the room. Champagne and wine made her thirsty, and she tucked her arms into his discarded shirt and drew the edges around her, crossing her arms to ward off the chill in the room. It barely covered her thighs. She walked down the hall towards his voice, and stopped short of an adjacent room to hear him talking. 

“I’ll be in DC on Wednesday, can we press the committee further to extend the program.” His voice was muffled. He sighed heavily.

“If that’s approved, I’ll supply another half-million.” More silence. Emma tiptoed closer, curious. Was this what he was talking about earlier?

“That’s great.” Another pause and then, “Just relay my message to them, and then focus on that as soon as you get back to the U.S.” Emma’s eyes widened. She pushed open the door, concerned. 

Killian leaned on the desk in the center of the room, clad only in pajama bottoms, looking up at her as she walked over to him, his arm going around her as she laid her head on his chest. Whatever he was discussing, he was content to have her listen in. Someone’s tinny voice came over the connection.

“I appreciate your assistance, Neal.” He cradled her head with his hand and stroked his fingers through her hair. “Call me when you leave London.” The tinny voice spoke an affirmation.

“Right. I’ll talk to you then.” He seemed impatient to end the call.

“Bye.” Killian held the phone out and pressed the screen. He looked down at Emma.

“Sorry to have woken you, darling.”

“You didn’t. I was just thirsty.” She smiled. This seemed intimate, normal. She wasn’t pushing him away, and Killian seemed at ease with her. 

“Well, then, let’s get you some water so you don’t lose any more sleep.” He kissed her forehead and led her downstairs to the kitchen. 

“Was that about the translators’ visas?”

“Yes,” he nodded as he ran cold water from the refrigerator dispenser. He handed her the glass. “My attorney is going to see about putting pressure on the committee to allow for another five hundred visas. If we can finance it and the defense bill is rejected, that is.”

“Can the program afford it?”

“It can, if I donate my own money.” Killian looked up above her head, a sign that he was bashful. “That’s all I have, really, is funds.”

Emma shook her head. “You have more to offer than that. You’re doing a good thing, Killian.”

“Am I?” He fingered the collar of his shirt around her shoulders. 

“You are. You have a mark in the hero column, trust me.”

He smiled and pulled her into his arms. 

“I thought the jury was still out about me, hm?” He was fishing, his forehead pressed to hers.

“Not anymore,” Emma said, looking into his eyes, “Not after tonight. I choose you.” She felt secure in her affirmation, like she was finally doing something right.

“Are you certain?” He looked at her in disbelief. 

“Yeah.” She smiled, love for him blooming in her chest. “I’m sure. I care about you, Killian.”

Killian let out a breath he was holding, and leaned to kiss her, soft lips brushing against hers.

“And I you.” He spoke against her lips. “Now, let’s go back to bed. I want to wake up next to you in the morning.”

“As you wish.” She smiled, yawning, and he gently led her back upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had terrible writer's block for this story over the last two weeks. It was killing me, but I'm done with it for now. I might end up pulling and editing the whole work later. I don't know. 
> 
> I'm definitely planning to write more in the future for it, but I've got another fic I'm working on at the moment. I'll just leave this here and let you surmise the HEA. 
> 
> Emma’s dress: http://www.newyorkdress.com/Sherri_Hill/50089.html
> 
> The chess game from The Thomas Crown Affair: 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVp9v9kCXE8

**Author's Note:**

> Salvador Dali's drawing was actually stolen from the Venus back in 2012. That part of the story is true. The thief was wearing a checkered shirt, walked in and took it. The drawing was mailed back from Greece ten days later. They never found the thief. I may have also borrowed some saucy lines from The Thomas Crown Affair, but it was a remake anyway. If you're ever in NYC, check out the Frick Collection. It's well-curated.


End file.
